


All the time in the world

by kate_the_reader



Series: His sun [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Comfort, Communication, Explicit Consent, Exploration, First Time, M/M, Overcoming nerves, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Touching, Yearning, finally getting what they want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Finally getting what you want and have yearned for over millennia can be overwhelming and even frightening, but fortunately Aziraphale and Crowley have all the time in the world, and a willingness to take things slowly and wait for each other.





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> My dear co-conspirators, mycitruspocket and MsBrightsideSH, have (as always) contributed so much to this fic, helping me build the ideas, reading and cheering and making it better. Darlings, I could not do this without you.
> 
> This follows on quite closely after the end of _His eyes_, but can be read alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He has wondered almost forever what it would be like to be touched. He has known only slightly less long that it is Crowley and only Crowley he wants to be touched by. And yet for all this time he has been so afraid, too afraid to allow this."

"Angel?" Crowley is already speaking as he pushes open the shop door. He’s been off somewhere, up to something, and Aziraphale’s heart lifts with his return. It’s always been like this, only now the absences are short, mere hours, and they often pick up the thread of what they were talking about before Crowley left, as soon as he comes in, saying "Angel?"

Aziraphale stands up from his desk. "There you are," says Crowley, sounding relieved, as if he feared that Aziraphale might have gone off somewhere himself.

"Here I am, just where you left me." 

Crowley has taken off his dark glasses. He frowns. "I only popped home, er, went back, you know, to check on the plants. Make sure they’re behaving themselves. Not getting diseases while I’m not looking." He looks pained. "I didn’t leave you."

"Oh, my dear! It was just a figure of speech. How are the plants? Thriving, I hope?"

"I did use to leave you. All the time, I just disappeared for ages."

"But I always knew you’d be back. Or you’d come to find me, when I needed you most. In Paris. In that church." 

Aziraphale steps closer, to where Crowley has stopped just inside the door. "Come, my dear. Come sit down and tell me about the plants. Or what were you going to say when you arrived?" He takes Crowley’s hand and leads him to his chair. "Come and tell me."

Crowley sits down, but he doesn’t pull up his long legs as he so often does. Instead he tugs Aziraphale’s hand. "Sit with me?" Aziraphale sits in his lap, turning so he can lean against him, just as they sat together the day of the second picture, and the third; the day of their first kiss, and their second. They sit together in silence a long time. They have time — time to wait for each other.

At last, Crowley starts to speak. "I was thinking, on my way back here, about what you said, when you showed me that rose picture. How I showed another side of myself, when we were looking after Warlock."

"Yes, my dear. You were very lovely."

"I was fierce!"

"Very fierce." Aziraphale has his head pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder, bony as it is. He looks up at him, sees the way his mouth has curled up at his teasing. Crowley loves to be teased, but there’s something else, something serious. "What, my dearest? What were you thinking about?"

"You liked it? I always thought … you know: Oscar Wilde, that club of yours … I assumed …" Aziraphale waits to see if he’s going to be more explicit. He thinks he understands what Crowley is driving at, but Crowley may want to make it clearer.

"I always thought you preferred the male form." It comes out in a bit of a rush.

"I preferred _you_, dearest." He lifts his hand, touches Crowley’s cheek lightly. Crowley’s eyes slip shut. "It’s always been you, only you." He sits up, away from Crowley’s shoulder, so he can lean in and kiss him. "There has never been anyone else." 

Crowley’s hands are on his shoulders, fingers digging in, a desperate hold. Aziraphale pulls back a tiny way from Crowley’s mouth so he can say: "I was never supposed to even like your corporeal form, let alone," he pauses, gathering his courage, "_desire_ it. But as soon as you looked at me … well, you’ve seen the pictures. And I like all the ways you change, all the forms you take, they’re all part of your essence."

His mouth finds Crowley’s again, opening to his questing tongue. It is such a precious thing, to enjoy their bodies in this new way. 

He brings his hands to Crowley’s chest, firm beneath his fingers, and feels a fine tremor run through him. Several of Crowley’s shirt buttons are undone, he slips his fingers inside, along his sharp collarbones, and up, until they rest on the pulse thrumming under his skin. Crowley’s fingers clutch more tightly at Aziraphale’s shoulders, an almost painful grip, and he positively writhes. He breaks their kiss to drag in a shuddering lungful of breath and then he returns, shifting a hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and into his hair; he tugs firmly, a delicious, claiming hold, and Aziraphale shivers.

And then Crowley tips Aziraphale’s head back and drops his mouth to his throat, and runs his tongue delicately over the skin under his jaw.

"I have wanted to do that for millennia," he murmurs. "_Millennia_." He returns to his tasting, fingers stroking. "More," he says, a trifle petulantly, "I want _more_ of you." His fingers are on Aziraphale’s throat, just above his tie, his buttoned collar. "May I?" he says, breathless. Aziraphale can only nod, and tip his head further to grant him access. Crowley scrabbles at the knot of his tie. "How?" he mutters, "how do you …?" And then he finds the ends and pulls and the bow unravels. "Ah," he whispers, "there you are" — undoing Aziraphale’s collar button and then another, and licking the revealed spot. It’s only a patch of skin an inch from where his mouth was before, but to be touched there feels astonishingly intimate.

He has wondered almost forever what it would be like to be touched. He has known only slightly less long that it is Crowley and only Crowley he wants to be touched by. And yet for all this time he has been so afraid, too afraid to allow this.

"How could you wait?" he says.

"What?" Crowley lifts his lips from Aziraphale’s skin just enough to speak. He can still feel his breath.

"I made you wait so long. How were you able?"

Crowley lifts his head, and his hand urges Aziraphale to raise his until they are looking at each other again. He has loved Crowley’s eyes and wanted to feel their light on him forever, but it is difficult too, to be defenceless, to be stripped bare.

"I was able," says Crowley, his voice rough, barely audible, "because I also only ever wanted one other. I was able to wait because I had no choice. But it was hard. So very hard. Almost too hard. Sometimes I thought I could not go on. Sometimes I went away for a long time, to spare myself, until the absence of you hurt worse.” His voice catches and shame sweeps over Aziraphale and he wants to hide from Crowley. He forces himself not to look away, or close his eyes. "Later, I thought if I had a way out," Crowley continues, "that would make the pain of waiting, of hoping, easier. But then you gave it to me, and of course I could never use it then. I could never do that to you. So I waited. I endured."

Aziraphale must respond, yet what can he ever say in the face of such suffering? 

"Nothing I can say would be adequate," he starts, but Crowley touches his mouth with a gentle finger.

"Hush, angel. It’s over. I don’t want to go back."

"No."

"No?"

"Yes. Only forward."

"Forever," says Crowley.

"Yours."

Crowley’s mouth is not so gentle now. Aziraphale is glad. He wants Crowley to have from him what he needs. What he wants. What he has waited so very long for, through all the lonely millennia. 

But then it is too much. After so long without, it is overwhelming. 

"Crowley?" he says, and he can hear a thread of almost-panic in his voice.

Crowley raises his head, from where he has been sucking a hot bruise into Aziraphale’s throat. "What? Am I … taking too much? I am greedy. Insatiable. You have undone me, angel, unloosed me." He leans away from Aziraphale, his eyes stricken. "I’m sorry."

Aziraphale reaches out, touches his fingers gently to Crowley’s mouth. "I … have yearned for so long, wondered what it would be like, to feel your hands on me, the touch of your mouth … my imagination failed me. You have been so patient—"

"And I can be patient again. But not—"

"Not," he waves a hand between them, "like this?"

"Temptation, once you give in … it’s hard to stop."

Aziraphale stands up, regretfully. Crowley keeps hold of his hand for a long moment. When he releases it, Aziraphale tugs his clothes straight, but Crowley frowns when he raises his hand to his collar, so he leaves it unfastened, the two ends of his tie hanging loose. There’s no need to hide himself away.

Crowley stands up, and they hover awkwardly, looking at each other. What now? What do you do when just looking at him scatters your thoughts?

Crowley clears his throat. "Would you like to go for a walk? Feed the ducks? We haven’t done that in a while. They’ll be wondering where we've got to."

"Yes, I’d like that," says Aziraphale, and Crowley smiles. Aziraphale pulls off his undone tie and fetches his jacket and wonders whether it’s going to rain. They step out into the street and when he turns to lock the door, Crowley stands very close behind him. He hasn’t put his glasses back on, and he keeps his eyes down as he opens the door of the Bentley for Aziraphale. Crowley drives through the afternoon traffic quite sedately, waiting patiently at traffic lights. He finds a parking spot near the entrance to St James’ Park (of course he does) and steps round the car again to open the door for Aziraphale. The gesture makes Aziraphale’s heart clench with tenderness. "Thank you, my dear," he says.

As they walk towards the lake, Crowley’s hand brushes his. The rush of nerves and — yes — _joy _startles Aziraphale. He closes his fingers on Crowley's. "Do you have any bread for the ducks, dear?" he asks.

"Brioche," says Crowley, shaking the bag that has appeared in his other hand.

When all the brioche has been tossed to the ducks — "Just look at the water sliding off them," says Aziraphale, to make Crowley laugh — they walk on again, and this time it's Crowley who takes Aziraphale's hand. 

A pair of women walking an Irish setter smile at them and Crowley looks sideways at Aziraphale, and he can feel the warmth even through the glasses. 

Back at the car, Crowley says: "We're closer to my place than yours. Would you like …?"

"That would be splendid."

"It's not comfortable, like yours," Crowley says as he unlocks the door, and it's true, the flat is very grand and very empty.

"Shall we check on your plants?"

"Alright," says Crowley, opening the door to a room that breathes out a dark, humid scent of earth and leaf mould and the rich perfumes of flowers, their pale petals gleaming. The leaves rustle, as if turning towards Crowley.

“They all look in perfect health, quite in the pink!"

Crowley shrugs. “Well, they know what’ll happen to them if they misbehave.”

Aziraphale’s heart does that funny squeeze that he’s gotten so used to, around Crowley. “Yes dear, that and the tender care I’m sure you lavish on them while you’re stalking around in here waving your sprayer.” 

Crowley throws back his head and laughs. “You see through me, angel.”

“I see _you_.”

“Well …” Crowley touches a vine with pale, waxy flowers twining up and along a shelf. He suddenly looks restless, even ill at ease. “Aziraphale,” he says, and that’s unusual enough to tell him something important is coming, “you will stay here? Stay with me tonight?” 

There’s a look of such naked _want _in Crowley’s eyes that Aziraphale quails slightly and he hopes he hasn’t let it show.

“Of course,” he says. _It won’t be like before._

Crowley seems to calm. “Drink?” he says, moving towards the door. “I have a bottle I’ve been saving around here somewhere.”

His kitchen is enormous, all gleaming granite and black tiles, and just as empty as most of his rooms. He opens a cupboard that contains a single bottle of Burgundy, Romanee-Conti 1947, and two glasses and takes them down, opens the bottle and pours, hands one to Aziraphale. He raises his glass. “To—”

“To us,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley steps closer. “To us,” he echoes.

The wine is dark and rich, complex and dangerous, thick with fruit and rough with tannins. There’s a faint tremor across the surface of the wine in Aziraphale's glass as he raises it to drink.

Crowley is slouching against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to stand like that, has never been able to, so he stands as he always does: straight-backed, feet together, feeling absurdly prim. At his shop there are plenty of places to sit, but there is just the one chair here, Crowley’s gilded throne, and he doesn’t think sharing it would be a good idea.

“I know there’s nowhere to sit,” says Crowley, as if he has heard Aziraphale’s thoughts. “But the bed’s …” He trails off. “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “The bed’s big, we can sit there.”

He looks so worried. Aziraphale reaches his hand up, touches Crowley’s face. “I didn’t pull back, before, because I don’t want to be touched … I do, but I never have …” It’s so hard to explain. “It was never allowed.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Will you trust me?”

“Of course.”

Crowley raises his own hand, takes Aziraphale’s and leads him down the hall. His bedroom is like the other rooms: empty of everything except the essential — an enormous bed. The bedding is slate grey, gleaming, silk.

Crowley lets go of his hand and sits on the bed, leaning down to pull off his boots before drawing his legs up. He props his chin on his knees. Aziraphale sits too, but he keeps his feet neatly on the floor. 

“Angel,” says Crowley, his voice low, gentle. Aziraphale half turns, so he can look at him. “It _is_ terrifying.”

A wave of relief washes through Aziraphale.

“So forbidden,” he says. “Even liking you, wondering when I’d see you again, _wanting _to see you again, it was all so forbidden. And none of them _ever _touches. For so long, I tried not to question it, tried not to think about it, tried not to imagine what it would be like. And now, I want to. I don’t think it’s wrong, I haven’t thought that for a long time, but they were always watching, I thought they were always watching, and it was dangerous, for you too.” He stops to draw a breath, to halt the tumble of his words. 

He slides his hand across the smooth bed covering to meet Crowley’s. “I do want to touch you, to be touched by you. I yearn for it, Crowley! But can we go more slowly?”

Crowley’s mouth twists in a wry smile at the way Aziraphale’s words call up those words from long ago, but he doesn’t say anything about that. Instead, he shifts closer to Aziraphale while still not crowding him. “Angel,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes steady, “we have all the time in the world. We have forever.” 


	2. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Strip me bare, if you want. Anything. Anything you want."
> 
> Aziraphale nods, licks his bottom lip and places one finger on Crowley's throat, drawing it down his chest until he reaches the first fastened button on his shirt. He smiles. "I would like that. Very much."

When Aziraphale pulls back, his voice rising in panic, it is hard for Crowley to force his own awakened need, which he has kept in check since the very beginning, back down. But he has defied his demonic nature for so long that his will — in this if in nothing else — is like iron.

He can be patient, he must be patient, nothing is worth the risk of going too fast for Aziraphale, again. But control is almost impossible with Aziraphale nestled against him, warm and soft and open, baring his throat to Crowley’s hungry mouth, revealing skin he has kept hidden from his twitching fingers for centuries.

A distraction is needed, a walk, the park, ducks! A bit of distance. Aziraphale is kind: he leaves his collar open. Crowley finds his patience carrying over into driving, no need to speed through the streets, better to show Aziraphale how slow he can go, when asked.

Hands, hands touching, brushing almost unseen while walking, that will surely be alright? And then Aziraphale takes his hand in a firm hold. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Crowley, just wraps his fingers around Crowley’s and talks about ducks, as if walking hand in hand in the park were the most natural thing in the world. And it is, in this world. 

He throws out, ever so casually, the suggestion to go to his own austere flat. It’ll be easier there, not to be seduced by softness. And the bed is big enough to remain far apart.

A glass of wine to steady the nerves, he’s been saving it for a special day — this day: they walked hand in hand in the park, Aziraphale loosened his collar, let Crowley mark him, spoke of _desire_. 

Aziraphale’s confession twists something deep inside. That such a being, so soft, so warm, so light-filled, should have yearned so long for something humans can have all the time, fills him with rage at Heaven all over again. Of course he knew, once, but he had forgotten over the long centuries, how cold it was — bright and hard and impenetrable as diamond. He’d seen, from within a pillar of hellfire, how self-righteous they all were, the contempt they had for Aziraphale, how they had cast him out too. 

No matter how long Aziraphale needs, to allow himself to have what he has wanted, Crowley will wait, because now the waiting is not hopeless.

“... we have forever.”

Aziraphale has reached out, touching his hand once again.

“Shall I tell you about touch, angel? What I was expected to do? ‘Touch them, lure them, tempt them into sin. Lead them from the path, defile them, drag them down.’” Aziraphale has turned towards Crowley, dared to draw a foot up from the floor. Their hands are still touching, Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s fingers lightly with one of his own. “I refused. If I couldn’t touch you, I refused to touch anyone, any human, like that.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. 

“It _is_ terrifying,” he tells him again, “_Terrifying_ to have at last what I have also yearned for. But I am not terrified that I will lose it. That we will lose it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, shifting towards him, taking his hand again, lifting it to where his open collar reveals that tiny always-hidden bit of him. Crowley trails two fingers over the place where his mouth marked the luminous skin. 

“I hated it,” he says, “when clothing took this away from me.”

“Did you, my dear?” Aziraphale smiles, a small, inward smile. “I like my ties, but you have left off your defence, for my sake, and I can do the same for you. Only for you.” And he reaches up and undoes another button, tilts his head back. “For you,” he says. Crowley bends and touches his mouth to Aziraphale’s skin. He feels … _reverent_ is the only word for it.

He could do this for hours: explore the texture of Aziraphale’s skin, sense its tremors under his lips, taste him, bathe in the scent of him. This small part of him will sate Crowley; it will be enough, until Aziraphale grants him more. He concentrates all his senses, corporeal and transcendent, on what Aziraphale is offering here, now. He hears Aziraphale’s breath hitch, and his hands, laid on Crowley’s thighs, tighten, his fingers digging in. Leaving marks, Crowley hopes.

Aziraphale lifts a hand to the back of his head, pushes it into his hair. It's too short to tug on, which Crowley thinks he would like — so many sensations to discover. He hums his pleasure and presses back into Aziraphale's hand.

"Angel," he whispers, "I want … put your hands all over me. Please."

"Crowley …" Aziraphale's answer is a sigh.

Crowley raises his head and sits up, looking into Aziraphale's face. "Strip me bare, if you want. Anything. Anything you want."

Aziraphale nods, licks his bottom lip and places one finger on Crowley's throat, drawing it down his chest until he reaches the first fastened button on his shirt. He smiles. "I would like that. Very much."

Crowley's chest is heaving.

But Aziraphale leans away. "One moment," he says, bending down and untying his shoelaces. He takes off his shoes, and then his jacket. Then he shifts further onto the bed. “There,” he says.

It’s so very Aziraphale that Crowley almost laughs. “I’m all yours, angel,” he says.

“Mmm,” is Aziraphale’s response. He drags a single finger down Crowley's chest again, but this time he doesn’t stop, he undoes the shirt buttons, very slowly. When he gets to where the shirt is tucked into Crowley’s trousers he pauses, as if to think, and then tugs on it, pulling the tails free. His head is slightly bowed and Crowley thinks of pushing his hand into his hair, as he did earlier, remembers the way the curls caught on his fingers. But this is Aziraphale’s time, so he saves that thought for later.

Aziraphale has stilled with the tails of Crowley’s shirt in his hands. Now, he slips his fingers under the wings of his shirt fronts and lifts them away from his chest, his palms slipping across Crowley’s skin. No other being has ever touched his skin like this. Aziraphale’s hands are soft — he knows this already, but the sensation is quite different, the touch of Aziraphale’s hands on _this_ skin is exquisitely delicate. 

He did not understand what he was asking when he asked Aziraphale to put his hands all over him. It’s been mere minutes and it may as well have been eternity. He hasn’t taken a breath. 

Aziraphale slips his hands further until they are cupped over Crowley’s shoulders, as if he is feeling the very bones themselves. He looks up and smiles, and flexing his wrists, lifts the shirt off his shoulders, pushing it down his arms, following it with his hands, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of Crowley’s elbows. The done-up cuff buttons give him a moment’s difficulty and Crowley almost magics them open, but he resists bringing _that _here, and waits for Aziraphale to get them unfastened. Aziraphale huffs an almost-laugh and pulls the shirt free. He encircles Crowley’s wrists with finger and thumb and runs his hands back up, slides them along his shoulders till his thumbs touch together, his hands loosely around Crowley’s throat. He slips his fingertips up along along his jaw, and turns Crowley’s head gently, fingers stilled on the snake-sigil. He leans in at last and places his mouth very carefully on the mark. A trickle of horror runs down Crowley’s spine. “Hush, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his mouth still touching it. All this time, Crowley has received Aziraphale’s touches without trying to reciprocate, now he raises a hand to his temple, to Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale takes it, turns it over and kisses the palm before moving it quite firmly back to the bed.

Crowley had thought, before, that he had been vulnerable to Aziraphale: when he let him take off his glasses, when he sat still under his scrutiny while Aziraphale drew him. That was nothing, nothing! to this. He has yearned for this since that very first day, and yet it is more terrible and more wonderful than six thousand years of imagining.

Aziraphale’s hands return to Crowley’s chest and he pushes gently, firmly. “Will you lie back, dearest?” 

Crowley nods, and allows himself to be pressed into the silken bed covering. The familiar slide of the fabric has been eclipsed by Aziraphale’s soft hands on his skin.

Aziraphale bends over him and kisses his mouth, his hands on his shoulders. Crowley gasps. He has been _claimed. _

Aziraphale sits back up, smiling down at Crowley. He draws his hands down Crowley’s chest, down his stomach, spans his waist and comes to a stop at the top of his trousers, low on his hips. He slips his fingers under the band, and brings them back to the button. He undoes the button and eases the zip down, frowning slightly. “How do you ever get these on, Crowley?”

Crowley wriggles his hips to demonstrate and Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle with delight.

“You _ shimmy_ them on?”

“And off.”

They’ve broken the worshipful silence. Crowley stretches the tension from his spine.

“Would you …?” says Aziraphale.

“Shimmy?”

“Please.”

Crowley wants to do whatever Aziraphale asks, but he is suddenly overcome by uncertainty. Uncertain of what Aziraphale expects, what he desires. His hands are on his waistband, but he hesitates.

“Crowley? What is it, my dear? Have I asked too much?”

“No.”

“But?”

“But … bodies. Corporeal forms …” It’s an absurd conversation for two unmortal beings to be having.

“Do you believe me when I tell you that I have wanted you in every form you have ever showed me? Even before I allowed myself to admit it?” Aziraphale puts his hands over Crowley’s, resting the tips of his fingers on the soft unseen skin of Crowley’s stomach. The touch is so light as to be barely there, but it eclipses everything else. 

“I do be- … I want to believe you.”

“I would be honoured to be allowed to see, and to touch, every part of your body. But not if that is more than you can reveal.”

And then Aziraphale lifts his hands away from Crowley’s body, raises them to his own waistcoat buttons and undoes them. He shrugs out of the garment, never looking away from Crowley. “I am wearing too many clothes, I think,” he says. 

His hands are on his shirt buttons when Crowley says: “May I?”

“Yes.”

Crowley gets to his knees and leans towards Aziraphale, whose hands are still on his shirtfront. His hands are bigger than Aziraphale’s, his fingers longer. Together, they unfasten the buttons. Not since Rome has Crowley seen so much of Aziraphale’s skin. He pushes the shirt open. “Angel.” His skin is creamy, smooth, warm under his hands. “Angel.”

Time may not have stopped, but if it had, Crowley would be content.

He raises his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s and asks again: “May I?”

Aziraphale nods and Crowley drops his mouth to the side of his neck, to the creases there, which had been revealed to him when Aziraphale looked anywhere but at him, that day on the Wall. He kisses him there, and then places kisses all the way across his chest. “So soft.” Crowley has long dreamt of sinking into Aziraphale’s softness. And he has thought about it constantly since the first time they held each other, in the bookshop, since Aziraphale leaned against him, within the circle of Crowley’s arms. The reality is dizzying. “So soft.” He wants to experience this softness with more than his fingers and his mouth. He wants to hold Aziraphale in his arms for a very long time. He wants to rest against him, pillow his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He wants to fall asleep on him, and wake, and sleep again.

“Lie down with me?” he whispers. “Stay with me?”

He feels the shiver that runs down Aziraphale’s spine as he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.” And he lies down. “Come, Crowley."

Crowley lies along Aziraphale’s side, their bodies pressed together, the sharp-edged against the yielding. A long sigh escapes his lips. He is properly at home in the world at last.

After a time of just lying together in the dark that he has pulled over them, listening to breath, and to blood, Crowley says: “When I assumed, you know, Oscar Wilde and all that …” he doesn’t know quite how to continue, but Aziraphale understands.

“I did feel a connection with men who love other men, women who love women. I do. For so long — for most of history! — they could not love openly. Just as I could not. As _we_ could not. And angels aren’t supposed to love anyone. Not like that. You know what they’re like, Up There. ‘No exclusive attachments’.”

“Fucking chilly place, Up There,” Crowley says. “I loathe the stone-cold bastards. The way they looked at you.”

“When we—”

“Yes.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is infinitely tender.

Crowley shifts so he’s got his face pressed into the hollow where Aziraphale’s shoulder dips towards his chest, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of him. Aziraphale pushes his hand into the short hair on the back of his head, and up, to where it’s longer, sifting it through his fingers, again and again. 

Crowley drifts to sleep, but he doesn’t want to actually be asleep, so he wakes again after a short while and lifts his head from the pillow of Aziraphale’s shoulder. His face is turned towards Crowley.

"Aziraphale?"

"Just watching over you while you sleep, my love."

"Guardian angel?" It's a silly thing to say, guardian angels are a human idea, nothing to do with them, but Crowley likes it anyway. They've been so terribly alone for so long; his bed has been empty, always. No longer. 

Aziraphale smiles. 

Crowley stretches, and is reminded that he stopped undressing before he got his trousers off. 

"I think I'm wearing too many clothes."

"As am I," says Aziraphale, sitting up and pushing his suspenders off his shoulders.

Crowley gets off the bed. His trousers are riding low and he wriggles to get them off. Aziraphale watches with his lips parted, heat in his eyes. "Oh my!"

Crowley stands before him in just his tight black briefs, but somehow he doesn't feel exposed now. Aziraphale moves to the edge of the bed and reaches for Crowley, wraps his hands around his hips and pulls him close. He rests his forehead against Crowley's stomach and kisses him there. 

"Beautiful," he breathes. 

Crowley tries not to feel uncomfortable. It does get easier to hear.

He slides his hands into Aziraphale's hair, the curls whispering across his knuckles, and on, down his neck, to the collar of his shirt. Crowley slips his hands under the cloth and pushes it gently from Aziraphale’s shoulders. The angel shivers when Crowley’s hands brush over his scapulas — across his hidden wings — and he flexes them sensually. Crowley files that to return to later.

“Angel? Let me undo your cuffs.” 

Aziraphale looks up at him, his eyes gone hazy with pleasure. He holds out his wrists to Crowley, a gesture filled with such trust that Crowley’s insides twist. He drags Aziraphale’s shirt off and drops to his knees to put them on the same level again; leans in to kiss Aziraphale, his hands on his thighs, pushing them apart to get closer. Aziraphale gasps softly and tightens his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. His mouth opens under Crowley’s and he slips his tongue across Crowley’s lips.

Every touch is new. Every time they kiss, Crowley discovers something, feels something, notices something about Aziraphale, and about himself, that he has not known, in spite of centuries. He has not known how a hand on a bared shoulder seems to concentrate all sensation, even as Aziraphale’s mouth is on his, their very tongues caressing, and that is surely the pivot of the whole universe. He’s in danger of becoming overwhelmed himself, he’s hanging on by the merest thread because now that they have this, he won’t give it up on his own account.

Aziraphale pulls back fractionally, rests his forehead against Crowley’s. “My dear,” he whispers, “I think,” he lifts a hand from Crowley’s shoulder and gestures at his trousers, “I should … I should _like _to, take off my trousers.” Crowley can feel the heat in Aziraphale’s face.

“I would like that too,” he says, and brings their mouths together again, just briefly, before getting to his feet, pushing against Aziraphale’s soon-to-be naked thighs.

Aziraphale stands up. He’s biting his bottom lip as he moves to undo his old-fashioned buttoned fly, which draws the moment out. And then he lets the garment drop to the floor and steps out of it. He’s wearing roomy blue-striped boxers and tartan socks. Crowley feels as if he might faint.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale has a tiny worried frown between his brows. Crowley takes a step towards him and pulls him into his arms. Aziraphale’s arms slip around his waist.

They are pressed together, skin to skin. _Skin to skin._ Aziraphale’s hands brush down the small of his back, and back up, along his spine. “Oh,” he says.

“What?”

“Is that …?”

“Yes. It’s not just the eyes,” Crowley confirms, and shudders as Aziraphale’s fingers brush over the scales that mar his back. But Aziraphale doesn’t pull his soft fingers away. 

“Beautiful,” he says, again.

Crowley tries to relax the tension that is holding him rigid. He has accepted Aziraphale’s attitude to his eyes, but Aziraphale has seen his eyes since the very beginning.

“Every bit of you, my love. Every form you take. _Everything_!” He hasn’t raised his voice, but Aziraphale is vehement. He takes Crowley’s hand and pulls him back towards the bed, stepping back himself and sitting down. Crowley sits, turned to face Aziraphale. His stomach is twisted into a knot. He knew this was coming. He had just hoped he’d have more time to focus on Aziraphale, to revel in the soft perfection of his skin. He wanted to fall to his knees again and press his face into Aziraphale’s stomach, and run his hands down the backs of his thighs, down his sturdy calves. He wanted to slip his fingers down his ankles and push his socks off and see his feet again, after all this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I do _want _to believe you.”

Aziraphale reaches out and brushes the backs of his fingers down the side of Crowley’s face. “Oh, my dear,” he says. “Would you lie down with me again?”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale gets properly onto the bed and shifts towards the pillows. Crowley crawls after him. He stops and puts his hands on Aziraphale’s ankles. “May I?”

Aziraphale’s smile is uncertain. “My socks?”

“Yes. I’ve missed your feet.”

“My _feet_?”

“Yes.” He’s not trying to make Aziraphale feel awkward, but this is making Crowley feel less miserably awkward himself. He slips the tips of his fingers under the edges of Aziraphale’s socks and waits.

“Alright. Yes. Anything you want.”

“Thank you.” Crowley pushes the socks down, cupping Aziraphale’s heels in his palms, and finally reveals his feet. He resists doing anything else, but he does smile. It’s been almost two millennia. Aziraphale’s expression is soft.

“Come here?” he says, opening his arms, and Crowley crawls into them, settling with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, angled so that his back is out of his reach. Aziraphale slips his hand into Crowley’s hair. “You have such lovely hair,” he says. “I sometimes wish it was as long as … as long as it was long ago.”

“Mmm,” is all Crowley can say right now. His hand is on Aziraphale’s chest and he strokes down to his stomach. “Mmm.” He keeps doing it, the feel of Aziraphale’s skin under his fingers soothing and mesmerising. Aziraphale seems content, one hand still in Crowley’s hair, the other arm wrapped around his shoulders. He hasn’t tried to touch _that_ part of Crowley again.

Crowley is almost asleep, in a pleasure trance, when Aziraphale speaks again. “Thank you for your patience. For your tenderness. You are so good to me. So kind.”

“Kind?”

“Yes. Kind. You’ve always been kind, of course. But today …”

“Kind?”

“Crowley?”

“Angel.” He understands. They are both self-conscious in different ways. “Of course I can be patient. You're patient with me. Kind to me … about, you know. And anyway,” he adds, “my patience has been rewarded. Amply.” His mouth almost closes around his last word. He doesn’t want to sleep, but he can’t help it. All the emotion, all the sensation, he is finally overwhelmed himself, the thread frayed through.

“Sleep, my love. I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”

“But …”

“Shhh.” Aziraphale’s hand keeps sifting through his hair. Crowley’s hand stills on his waist, curved around Aziraphale’s warmth. “We have all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to hear from you if you are liking this story!


	3. You are most lovely in my eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wonders what they will do now, in the late afternoon of a perfectly ordinary Sunday. A perfectly _unordinary _Sunday. Will they go further than they did last night? Is Crowley ready to allow him to see more of his hidden self? Is Aziraphale ready to reveal his own secret places in turn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have raised the rating to M. It is not explicit, but is moving in that direction.

Crowley’s face in sleep is soft, the way his head rests on Aziraphale’s shoulder so trusting, so intimate. 

Crowley has given him more in these few hours than he has ever been given, than he dared hope for. Has touched him with exquisite tenderness, has looked at him with patient adoration, has allowed him to look and touch in return. 

Until he found that secret. Aziraphale means what he told Crowley: nothing about him is less than anything else. His glowing eyes have been beloved forever, all through the millennia when Aziraphale was still trying not to admit the truth to himself. He will not draw back now — couldn’t. But it was a surprise, that for all Crowley’s mutability, he bears this extra vestige that causes him shame. 

Still, he laid down and allowed himself to sleep in Aziraphale’s arms, open and vulnerable. He could lift his arm from Crowley’s shoulders, let his hand drift lower down his back. He could, but he will not. Crowley shifts slightly and sighs, the hand on Aziraphale’s waist sliding lower, to his hip, over the thin cotton of his underpants, his fingers curling reflexively into the fabric. His mouth curves into a faint smile. Aziraphale settles the hand that has been in Crowley’s hair on his ribs, holds him closer and closes his own eyes.

The light in the room is grey when he opens them again. It seems hours have passed. He doesn’t usually bother with sleep, but the emotion of these last days has made it more appealing, perhaps necessary. And if Crowley will allow him this — will lie down with him, trusting and close, will lie in his arms, will lay his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his hair tickling his neck — he will learn to love sleep. 

Crowley has shifted to lie even more on Aziraphale, stretched across his torso, a hand clutching his shoulder. He glances down. Crowley’s fiery hair is spilling over his chest. His heart gives that funny squeeze. Crowley has responded to his wish. He brushes the hair gently back from Crowley’s brow, runs his fingers through it and thinks of all the times he has wanted to do just that. Crowley’s body has given him a gift.

Crowley shifts and turns his head, his eyes open the merest slits. “Angel,” he murmurs, his mouth clumsy with sleep. “You stayed …” His eyes fall shut again but he presses his head back into Aziraphale’s hand briefly as Aziraphale pulls his fingers through the twining strands. They catch briefly on his ring. They are lying on top of the covers on the wide, soft bed. Crowley keeps his flat warm, but even so, surely he was chilled as they slept? He holds him closer. The way Crowley is sprawled means he could easily see his back, but he has not stolen a look at what Crowley is hesitant to show him. He can be patient too.

He doesn’t sleep again, but he drifts, hardly thinking as Crowley slumbers on. The light is much brighter when Crowley finally opens his eyes properly.

“Good morning,” says Aziraphale.

“S’afternoon,” Crowley slurs.

“Well, yes, but you’ve just woken up.”

Crowley slumps off Aziraphale onto his back and stretches luxuriously, runs a hand through his hair. He frowns.

“It grew,” Aziraphale tells him. “You grew it in the night. For me, I think.”

“For you. Yeah. For you.”

“It’s very lovely. Thank you.”

“Did I lie on you all night?”

“I think so.”

Crowley turns his head to look properly at Aziraphale. He’s smiling. “You told me you don’t sleep. But you stayed here, all this time?”

“Well, I’m reconsidering my stance on sleep.”

“Your stance on sleep?” Crowley laughs. “Angel,” he says.

“But I wouldn’t say no to a bit of breakfast now.”

Crowley rolls over onto his front and props himself on his elbows, tilts his head back and looks up at Aziraphale, who is sitting up against the pillows. “We’ll have to get up. And get dressed. And go out.” 

“Yes. But we can come back here afterwards. If you want.” Aziraphale leans down and kisses him, just because he wants to, and he can. Crowley looks a little stunned and Aziraphale smiles at him. 

The intensity of last night was very precious, but he likes this too, this lightness. He wants both.

Crowley rolls back over and stands up, pulling on his trousers, _shimmying _them on, indeed. Aziraphale’s trousers are a crumpled heap where he dropped them. They’ll be terribly creased. He steps into them, nevertheless, and turns around to see Crowley flicking his fingers to magic the creases away. He knows he looks foolishly fond, but then, so does Crowley. His shirt has fared better; Crowley, still shirtless, watches as he tucks it in and lifts his suspenders into place. 

That they could have this, just this, this _ordinariness_, is almost too much to even think. That they could sleep, and wake, and get up and dress and go out for breakfast and go about their days like this … 

“... get breakfast, angel?”

“Pardon?”

Crowley’s smile is indulgent. “I asked where you would like to get breakfast.”

“I’m so sorry, my dear, my mind was distracted. There’s a wonderful little French patisserie near the shop, have I ever taken you there? They do scrumptious fruit tarts.”

“Lead on.”

The streets of Soho are busy on this Sunday afternoon, full of people out with friends, even some men walking hand-in-hand in the sunshine. The tables outside the tiny Maison Bertaux are full, but a couple stand to leave just as they walk up. “How lucky,” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow. 

Michelle the owner greets Aziraphale warmly and recommends a tart positively groaning with apricots. 

“But your friend may prefer something simpler, I think, Mr Fell. A _tarte au citron_, not too sweet, in fact, quite sharp.”

“Yes indeed, splendid choice, my dear.”

As they settle back at their outdoor table, he says to Crowley: “They’ve been here almost as long as I have. 1871, in fact. I can’t believe I’ve never brought you here before.”

Crowley slides his glasses down his nose just a bit. “Neither can I,” he says. “Don’t they wonder?”

“The owner’s rather a bit older than she looks, my dear, I believe she may think it’s her pastries keeping us both so young.”

He is rewarded with Crowley’s fullest, most delighted laugh. 

His hair is loose, falling almost to his shoulders in messy waves. It's hard to look at him in public with any decency. Aziraphale has never used glasses to hide behind, but he may have to invest in a pair. Or borrow one of Crowley's.

Their pastries arrive, delivered by a young man who smiles at them with what seems like special warmth. A pot of tea for Aziraphale, coffee for Crowley. Aziraphale can't help the sigh of pleasure that escapes him after the first bite of the apricot confection; nor it seems, can Crowley stop his indulgent smile. He takes a bite of his lemon tart. "Hmmm." He takes another bite. "Mmm." He eats half the slice before pushing the plate across to Aziraphale. "Would you like to finish it, angel?"

"You don't need to do that anymore, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Give me your food to finish, so the meal lasts longer, my dear."

Crowley doesn't say anything for a moment, as a blush rises up his face.

"You knew?" he finally says, his voice very quiet.

"I suspected." He reaches for Crowley's hand among the crockery. "Oh, my love."

Crowley is looking down at their hands, his fingers tight over Aziraphale's.

"Angel." He clears his throat. "I may have to change my stance on food." He looks up. "But you really should have a taste of this lemon thing."

Aziraphale has to swallow hard to move the lump from his throat so he can taste the lemon tart. It _is_ delicious. Crowley keeps hold of his hand, looking at the people passing by on the street as he sips his coffee, mouth quirking in a small smile. 

When the last crumbs are gone, Crowley says: “Let’s go home. I mean, let’s go to the shop.”

Aziraphale has to take a deep steadying breath at that. “We could, or we could go back to yours. There’s … there’s no bed at my flat.” He can feel the blush rising up his neck.

“Whichever you prefer.” Crowley is not as nonchalant as he’s trying to seem.

“Yours, then. Please.”

They’re the only pair still strolling hand-in-hand as they leave the narrow, bustling lanes of Soho for the grander streets of Mayfair, but Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand does not loosen.

“This used to feel so impossible, didn’t it?” says Aziraphale, lifting their joined hands. “I would never have dared.”

“Very few would have, I suppose,” says Crowley. “It’s like you said last night. Of course, Down There was pretty keen on forbidden … not love, but, you know, everything Up There tried to ban.”

“I don’t think either side knows much about it, do you?”

“The humans seem to be making a go of it. Live and let live.”

“Love and let love. In some places, at least.”

They’ve arrived at Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale wonders what they will do now, in the late afternoon of a perfectly ordinary Sunday. A perfectly _unordinary _Sunday. Will they go further than they did last night? Is Crowley ready to allow him to see more of his hidden self? Is Aziraphale ready to reveal his own secret places in turn?

“What—?” says Aziraphale, just as Crowley says: “Do you—?” And then they both stop to wait for the other and neither says anything. 

Aziraphale seizes the initiative by stepping closer to Crowley and reaching for him, placing just the tips of his fingers on Crowley’s throat. It is starting to feel less daring. They are almost of a height, Crowley just a little taller, which Aziraphale has always secretly liked, without really being sure why.

“I asked to come back here because of the bed,” he says again, which still makes him blush. “I’m greedy now, you see.”

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s hand and lifts it to his mouth.

“I think,” he says, softly, his lips moving on Aziraphale’s skin, “I have something I must show you first.”

“Only if you are ready, my love.”

“I am tired of secrets, of hiding.”

But once they are in the bedroom, it is hard to know how to start. Should they just take off their clothes, standing on opposite sides of the bed? That would be efficient. Aziraphale takes off his jacket, looks around for somewhere to put it, and realises there’s a clothes stand in the corner. “Was that there before?”

“No. I thought you needed somewhere, that’s to say, you don’t like creases—”

“Crowley! You put it there just for me? How thoughtful.” 

He hangs his jacket on the stand and starts to unbutton his waistcoat. Crowley watches, unbuttoning his own, and so they mirror each other until they are both down to their underwear, like before. 

Crowley is so beautiful — slender, his skin golden. His hair is past his shoulders now, tumbling in fiery tendrils. 

“Come here?” he says, almost tentatively. Aziraphale steps closer and Crowley reaches for him, a hand on the side of his face, and leans down that little bit and kisses Aziraphale, sweetly, tenderly, and Aziraphale’s hand is on the back of his neck, under his hair, and he pulls him even closer and deepens the kiss. Crowley has his other hand on Aziraphale’s waist, fingers digging in a little, so Aziraphale dares to place his hand on the small of Crowley’s back. But he keeps his fingers still, not trying to discover more by touch than he has been shown.

Crowley breaks their kiss. “Do you really want to see? … I want to show you. I do, ” he says, breathless. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for, my dearest heart?”

“For hiding this.” He grimaces. “I know you said, last night … but …”

Aziraphale moves his fingers gently down Crowley’s spine, feeling the way his skin’s texture changes. It’s not rough, precisely, it’s smooth in a different way.

“_All_ of you,” he says, as he did in the darkness.

Crowley nods and spins around as if to stop himself losing his nerve.

The scales lie dense along his backbone, black and shining, spreading and scattering lightly across the planes of his back and shoulders. Aziraphale has no point of comparison, but to him they are beautiful. He touches them with both hands. A shiver runs up Crowley’s spine. Aziraphale bends to place his mouth where they are most complete, in the small of Crowley’s back. He can feel how tense Crowley is, the fine tremor shaking him. He straightens and lays his cheek between Crowley’s shoulder blades, and reaches round and places his left hand over Crowley’s heart. 

“Thank you,” he says, “for showing me. You are most lovely in my eyes.”

Crowley’s hand covers Aziraphale’s. He doesn’t say anything, but the tremor calms and his body slowly relaxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Maison Bertaux](http://www.maisonbertaux.com/) is a real patisserie in London's Soho, exactly as it is in the story. The pastries are delicious and you should definitely go there if you are ever in London.
> 
> The idea that Crowley gives his food to Aziraphale when they eat out, so the date will last longer, is not mine, but a headcanon on tumblr (I can't find it now!) that I couldn't resist, in this context.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, I'd love to chat in the comments!


	4. Your whole self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s knees buckle, but Aziraphale has him safe and he lifts him up, holds him tenderly against his chest, and lays him on the bed.

They stand together a long time, breathing together, their hearts beating as one — that which is most human about them in perfect harmony. They don’t need breath, or hearts pumping, but they have both chosen to inhabit these corporations as humanly as possible. 

He has always hated that for all he can change about himself, he cannot rid his form of these final reminders of his true nature. He had been terrified of revealing his hidden blemish to Aziraphale, had thought that perhaps it would never have to be revealed. That in spite of his own greed for everything about Aziraphale, perhaps an angel would not want _bodily _intimacy, would draw back from him. But Aziraphale _had _wanted that, had consented to touch and be touched, had pushed himself past discomfort, had agreed to bare not only his heart and his mind and his soul but his body, leaving Crowley nowhere to hide.

Aziraphale has thanked Crowley for his patience without seeming to realise the profundity of what he has given Crowley: the courage to be vulnerable; to also bare his heart and his mind and his soul. And his body. He has led him gently, without it ever seeming deliberate, from leaving off the glasses to finally showing this awful secret. Has assured him with every new revelation that Crowley is beautiful to him. It is so hard to believe, but he cannot withhold that belief from Aziraphale. He has to give all of himself. Even the ugly parts. Even the parts he is ashamed of.

Aziraphale’s warmth surrounds him, his skin against Crowley’s skin, his skin against Crowley’s scales.

At last Aziraphale shifts against him and his right hand, which has rested lightly on his hip, skates along the top edge of his underwear. _Oh_.

“May I, my darling?”

Crowley nods, swallows, tries to use his voice, eventually manages: “Yes.”

His heartbeat ratchets back up to skittering as Aziraphale slides just his pinky finger under the elastic while his other hand skims down from Crowley’s chest to his waist. His breath is shallow, catching in his throat, as Aziraphale’s hand slips further, held close to Crowley's eager body by the tight black fabric.

“Oh! Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s breath is warm as it whispers across his shoulder, but Crowley’s entire consciousness is focused on what Aziraphale’s hand is doing as his fingertips find his cock. 

Crowley stops breathing.

Aziraphale’s fingers stroke along his whole length, and he wraps his warm, soft hand around Crowley’s hardness, and his other hand slides across his waist and Aziraphale has him cradled tight as Crowley feels as if he might shake apart, as if his very atoms could spin off into the ether.

“I’ve got you, my darling,” Aziraphale breathes, and he is holding Crowley, safe in his gentle encircling hand and his strong protective arm. 

Nothing in all their millennia could have prepared Crowley for this moment — for the wave of love that crashes through him, for the cry he is certain rends the fabric of time in that place among the stars where part of him has always dwelt, for being enfolded there in Aziraphale’s radiant wings.

Here in this place, in Aziraphale’s arms in their beloved London, he finds his voice. “Angel,” he gasps, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes as all the tension he has held inside of himself forever breaks free. But he doesn’t shake apart, because Aziraphale has got him, here and everywhere, now and forever.

“Yes, forever, my dearest love. _My Crowley_. Forever and everywhere.” Aziraphale’s voice in his ear is hoarse, as if he too has been shouting across space and time.

Crowley’s knees buckle, but Aziraphale has him safe and he lifts him up, holds him tenderly against his chest, and lays him on the bed.

Crowley opens his eyes, merest slits. Aziraphale is seated on the bed, leaning over him. His expression is indescribable, transcendent, and Crowley bathes in it. He reaches for Aziraphale's hand, holds it against his thundering heart again. 

“’Ziraphale … love … I—” he pauses to simply breathe, to put the words in their proper order. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He could go on saying it to eternity, but his mouth is stopped by Aziraphale’s and then he is surrounded once again as Aziraphale climbs onto the bed, making a cage of his limbs, his elbows sinking into the pillow by Crowley’s head, his knees pressed either side of his hips, his fingers in his hair, his face so close that it blurs out of focus. His eyes blaze with a pure light. Crowley reaches up and wraps his hand around the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and pulls him down into another kiss, deep and messy and breathless. By the time their mouths part, Aziraphale, now as naked as Crowley, is stretched full length on him, and something Crowley has wondered about is evident.

Aziraphale strokes the side of his face. “I had no idea,” he says, dropping his eyes from Crowley’s, “what this would feel like, with you.”

“Nor I,” says Crowley. “How could we? No one’s ever done … that. What you did to me. Never in the history of forever.” 

He’s not sure how to say what he wants to say next. “Angel, have you always …?” He rolls his hips up, hoping Aziraphale will understand as their bodies move against each other.

“Oh!” says Aziraphale. “No. Not before. It was hardly the sort of thing They would have countenanced. And there was no need, before.” He drops his face to Crowley’s shoulder, hiding. “And I gathered, from books you know, that it might be … inconvenient, sometimes, when we …”

“Yes.” Crowley knows what that is like.

“Have you? Always?”

“No. Not always. Sometimes, when I’d seen you, it was terrible — torture, almost! And then I wouldn’t, for ages.”

Aziraphale lifts his face, suffused with a blush, and raises his body from Crowley’s, shuffling backwards until he’s kneeling astride him again. So they can both see what they have only felt.

“Beautiful,” says Crowley. “You are perfect in every respect, angel.” Aziraphale would look like a statue coaxed from the finest marble but for that fact that his pale flesh is warm, glowing with life, and rosy with blushing. Crowley itches to touch him everywhere. “Come back? I need to touch you.”

Aziraphale smiles and comes nearer again, walking on his knees until he is close enough so Crowley can fold his hands around Aziraphale’s hips, his fingers sinking into his generous curves, his thumbs tracing down to his groin. He slips his fingers down also, until he is cradling Aziraphale’s balls in one hand, the other wrapped around his cock. _The weight, the delicious heat!_

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, his mouth rounded in surprise, his eyes wide. Then “Oh,” in a lower tone, a note of understanding. “Aaaah …” a sigh of pleasure. “_Crowley.” _Aziraphale’s eyes drop shut and he sinks down, his bottom on Crowley’s thighs, his head thrown back, his hands braced behind himself. 

Crowley strokes — that felt so very good, when it was Aziraphale’s hand on him. Aziraphale’s hips jerk forwards. He looks so lovely, but Crowley feels … distant, somehow. He wants Aziraphale’s breath in his face. He sits up, and now he’s holding on to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he remembers that sensual roll from before and skims his hand lightly over Aziraphale’s scapulas and he feels the tremor there as in their other dimension his true magnificence bursts forth again and Crowley is almost blinded, but he does not fall back, or quail before him, because this is his Aziraphale, as no being has ever known him, and he shouts his pure _joy _at that knowledge and his own wings unfurl as the stars wheel above and around and below them.

In their bed they cling together and Aziraphale trembles, his hands tight on Crowley’s shoulders now, and it’s all that’s keeping Crowley from flying apart, again, even as Aziraphale unravels, every bit of his self-possession giving way. He has never in all their long existence been more perfect to Crowley or more beloved. After, he gathers him in his arms and Aziraphale is soft and pliant, his head on Crowley’s shoulder, his breath a harsh panting.

Crowley lies back, pulling Aziraphale on top of himself as they both come fully back into their earthly selves.

Crowley realises he has not spoken a word to tell Aziraphale anything of how deeply moved he is, how altered he feels.

“Thank you,” he says, breathing it across Aziraphale’s damp skin.

“My darling?”

“For giving me … for giving me your whole self. For helping me to show you my whole self. For allowing me to touch you so intimately. For keeping me safe.”

“When you thought you would shatter apart?”

Aziraphale has read the secrets of Crowley’s heart. He does not feel stripped uncomfortably bare by that.

“Yes,” he says.

“I will always hold you safe, my love. It took me so long to understand and admit what you knew all along, but you are safe with me now, always.”

Aziraphale sighs and settles in Crowley’s arms, where Crowley has always, always wanted him. They are safe together, each holding the other’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, I’d love to chat to you in the comments.
> 
> I have another story in this series quite close to ready.


End file.
